


there is no glory in star or blossom (till looked upon by a loving eye)

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [137]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Feanor's A+ Parenting, Flashback to Mae's 19th birthday when things were Good, Gen, Maglor's Musical Talents, Mother-Son Relationship, New York City, POV First Person, Title from William Cullen Bryant, all the feels, well...mostly good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-31 01:42:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21038600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Nerdanel visits the city.





	there is no glory in star or blossom (till looked upon by a loving eye)

It is as good as quarrelling, to even try and tell my husband why I do not join him on his frequent journeys to the city. He desires that his father see our many sons, and I oblige that—no matter how wearying, and no matter how often it devolves into a one-sided battle against the other members of his family—but when he rides alone, I let him.

“Do you not crave a little solitude, Nerdanel?” he will coax me, looking through his eyelashes. As if we do not lock our bedroom door thrice a week!

“Send our sons my love,” I answer sweetly. And then I kiss him, so that he shall not be pettish.

(My father died neglected. Oh, he had many friends. Many neighbors. But I, his only daughter and closest kin, was not at his side near the end.

I am Nerdanel, fiercely loyal...to those I have around me.)

Caranthir chastens me on this point, despite my years of resolve. He is not even trying to; he is minding the twins. They are nine years old and should not need to be minded, yet they are still as unruly (and as dear) as little fox-kits. Caranthir, who admires Maitimo especially, has taken to being quite attentive to them.

“Round your letters a little less, Amrod,” he is saying. “There, that is better. Maitimo shall be pleased.”

“We wrote him last week,” Amras grumbles.

“And his birthday is next week. You know how lonely he shall be!”

There are no more complaints. I tighten my fists in the folds of my apron.

(I knew his grief when he left. I felt it, too. But surely, after all this time—after four years—)

Caranthir is my conscience, the twins are my babies, and Maglor is my confidant. But I am a selfish woman, and I have a favorite son.

“Feanor,” I say, as I stitch on a new collar where one was mysteriously scorched, “You ride for the city tomorrow.”

He is alert at once—and because he is almost always alert, I am aware that I have caught him in a rare moment of dreaming. “You know that I do.”

I finish two more stitches. “I should like to go with you.”

Ordinarily, the thought of a stranger being allowed into our home shocks Feanor’s conscience. This time, though, he is so eager to oblige me that he does not protest when I beg the watchful eye and kindly presence of Jennie, one of our nearest neighbors. Celegorm is only fourteen; unlike Feanor, I do not think that that is _quite_ old enough to be left alone for several days.

“I am glad you have chosen to accompany me,” Feanor says, shifting restlessly against the cushioned carriage seat opposite mine. He is positively giddy. My heart gives a little leap.

“It is almost Maitimo’s birthday,” I venture.

“So it is.”

“He shall be nineteen.”

“When I was nineteen,” Feanor says, tilting his head so that his hair—yet ungrayed—slants across his brow, “I was madly in love with you.”

“And I with you.”

“What about now?”

“_Feanor_. Is seven sons not enough to prove that to you?”

There is a tiny shadow in his gaze at this; I have spoken thoughtlessly. Though I am young, it seems I shall bear no more children. I know he counts some periods of estrangement as our last wasted days; I might count the year he left us for that same score. I am scarcely forty years old; I have had no stillbirths, no miscarriages. I thought myself fortunate, when my sons were born.

When I am happy, I think so still.

To cheer him, I reach out to stroke the side of his face. The shadow is gone. He takes me in his arms, nearly upsetting us both as the carriage rumbles on.

The city air seems to seep through the windows, and I cough a little.

“It is foul, I know,” Feanor tells me, “But you will grow used to it.”

“Husband, I have been to the city before.”

We are still miles away, but I crane my neck, as if my eldest’s copper curls will flash around a dingy corner because I simply wish to see them; as if I shall, by so craning, hear Macalaure’s voice a little sooner.

I smile at Feanor. He is still rather flushed, his shirt-collar a bit disheveled.

“They do not know I am coming,” I say, and am seized with a mother’s delight, rather than a girl’s. “They shall be so surprised.”

(Nothing is equal to the look of amazement on Maitimo’s face when he opens the door and sees me. Nothing in this world.)

“_Mamaí_,” he cries, still with his hands wrapped around my elbows, “You sent no word, you did not—” He is almost stuttering.

I laugh. Almost tearfully, I laugh. “It is mid-April, darling,” I say. “Do you think I could forget?”

He flushes; he pales, he drops his bright head almost foolishly.

“Let us come inside, my boy,” Feanor says, from behind me. He is smiling too, despite his impatient tone. “You would think that it was a full year since you had seen her—were you not reunited at Christmastide?”

“Of course, sir,” Maedhros agrees, releasing me. “Mother, be assured, there will be plenty of supper for you. Maglor and I eat like horses, and our cook always prepares a generous spread.” He smiles, very brightly, and I hear the words unspoken:

_See, I am eating. I am well._

I sigh, content. “Your father and I will join you, then, after we have freshened our faces,” I answer.

“How—” Maedhros pauses. “How long do you stay, Athair?”

“Your mother insists on staying for three days instead of my usual two. We shall leave Monday, therefore.”

Maedhros smiles, sharply bright, but then he bites his lip. “I have a dinner engagement on the morrow,” he says, “But it will be no trouble to postpone it; no trouble at all.”

He is not only eating—not only grown taller than when last I saw him, with several inches between him and the crown of his father’s head. He is also flourishing socially, even without formal schooling to structure the hours of his day. At Christmas, Finwe mentioned to me that Maedhros might be suited to the study of law. I must put a word in Feanor’s ear, in a moment when he is inclined to listen.

“I would not wish you to be remiss in your promises, dear one,” I say. “But nevermind—tonight we have each other, do we not?”

Macalaure slumps elegantly down the main stairwell, raising a languid hand in greeting.

“Mother! Maedhros did not say you were coming.”

“Because I sent no message,” Feanor says. “Come and kiss your mother, Maglor.”

“I was _going_ to,” he says, affronted.

Maedhros quirks an eyebrow at me in patient amusement. “Maglor, I am afraid I have already detained them. Athair’s room is ready, is it not?”

“Yes.” Maglor embraces me and then skips away, as if to lead us up the stairs. “Coming, _mamaí_? And Athair, of course.”

We sup together, all gathered round the end of the long table. I know that Feanor once dreamed Valinor Park would be our true home, but it was he himself who could no longer bear to be near Indis and Fingolfin. I swallow a mouthful of soup, and am stung by sudden grief. How happy Maedhros looks, if still a little winter-pale! How easily Maglor speaks of his studies and accomplishments, when his voice is not overwhelmed by the chorus of little brothers!

But I want his brothers here, and I want us to be at home. I will not accept a family in fragments.

“We had best to bed, my love.” Feanor looms in the parlor doorway with a sheaf of documents rolled haphazardly beneath his arm. There is a spot of ink on the delicate tip of his nose; I shall kiss it away later. “My father will wish to lunch with us tomorrow.”

Maedhros and I have been tucked up together on the sofa, his long legs curled beneath him and his head resting on his hand as he tells me, very animated, of all that Maglor does, all the talent that he demonstrates.

_And what of you?_

_I am fencing. I will soon be sailing. I see my cousins a good deal. _

Now, he stands. “Goodnight, _mamaí_,” he says, stooping to kiss me. I wish I could take him back with me, my tall brave boy. “Sleep well.”

Here is what I dream of: my babies, young again. And Feanor, without the creases of fear and arrogance on his brow, holding me close.

Maglor is cheerful at breakfast, hinting at the opportune nature of my visit. It seems he has a musical performance this afternoon, at the City Hall, and lest I think it but a student exhibition, he and the other musicians were invited by the office of the mayor—

“What?” Feanor demands acidly, and Maglor goes as stiff as a frightened rabbit.

Maedhros does not flinch, as he pours more coffee for me. “Grandfather was the one who told Maglor of the opportunity,” he says, perfectly calm but for the flutter of his eyelashes. “And he received the appointment by performing before a board of judges. No doubt they _would_ have excluded him, given any excuse…but his merit was too great.”

Feanor settles back, his expression still stormy. We all wait, breathless, and then I say,

“Depend upon my attendance, Macalaure. Your father may be too busy, but if Maitimo is not otherwise engaged, I’m sure he will join me.”

“It would be a useful opportunity,” Maedhros says to his father, in an undertone that may not have been meant for my ears.

Feanor frowns thoughtfully, and nods.

After morning Mass, Maglor begs off luncheon at his Grandfather’s—regretful, but overburdened by responsibility, he assures us—and Maedhros and I spend the early hours of the afternoon wandering the streets together. Finwe would have kept us longer, but Feanor’s business took him away, and I knew _he_ would not take kindly to my remaining with Indis.

“Here is the tea-shop where Finrod and Fingon meet us,” Maedhros says.

“Do you see them often?” I ask, with a smile that I hope conveys my promise of secrecy.

He nods. “Fingon is very serious about being a doctor, you know. He is a little too young for studies, but Uncle Fingolfin is doing his best to find him a place. And Finrod is now nearly finished, but they find evenings enough for the four of us to—”

“Cut capers?”

His dimples flash at me. “From time to time.”

“But you are quite a man now,” I say, fondly admiring. He is wearing wool so finely grey it is almost the color of his eyes, and his trousers, though boldly chequered, are tapered close to his legs and are somehow not ridiculous. He has a gold-handled cane, and kid gloves as delicate as any I have ever owned. His face is as beautiful as his father’s—perhaps, dare I say, even more so. There is a luminous delicacy to his gold-spotted skin, and his uncut hair curls so thick and lustrous about his neck that I feel every strand of my own fading in comparison. “Come.” I put my hand on his. “Let us have a cup of tea.”

_Are you happy here, _I want to ask, _or have you become skilled at lying?_

We are not alone in the tea-shop. There is a bevy of furbelowed young ladies who, if I am any judge, are casting an impressive array of sheep’s eyes at my oblivious eldest. One of the bolder ones, at length, makes it halfway across the floor before she feigns dropping her handkerchief and retreats in confusion.

“Maitimo,” I say.

He looks up, curious.

“You have _admirers_.”

He turns, at once, an endearing shade of scarlet. “I don’t think so, Mother.”

I cock my head ever-so-slightly. “Behind me.”

He sneaks a furtive glance and then shakes his head. His brow furrows like his father’s. “No, no. That is—that is only the daughter of Uncle Fingolfin’s banker. No doubt she recognized me from a party at Grandfather’s. That is all.”

“I am your mother, dear boy, but I am also a woman. I know what women look like, when they are charmed.”

He practically drowns himself in his tea, he is so embarrassed. I relent. It is Maglor whom I should tease and make inquiries of; not innocent Maitimo.

“The air is a little close in here, is it not? Let us take another turn down the street—perhaps ending nearer to the river, this time.”

_Are you happy here? Would you choose to remain, if the choice _was_ yours?_

I have no voice for singing, no ear for precise delineation between notes. God gave me hands that could work clay and oil and stone, and for this I thank Him. He gave me, also, a son with a nightingale’s heart.

I listen to Maglor play and sing, and I weep.

Maedhros squeezes my hand in both of his. “Is he not an angel, _mamaí_?” he whispers, his own eyes shining bright. “Perhaps you ought to have given _him_ my saint-name.”

“And robbed you of it? Never.” I wipe my eyes.

If Feanor was only here, and could see that Maglor’s music is an antidote to all conflicts, grievances, grudges, and pains.

_If only._

Maglor (with renewed regrets) must stay afterwards to meet a few patrons of the Hall. “Let us meet your father,” I suggest, for I know something Maedhros does not—his father has not forgotten that it is birthday tomorrow.

He agrees. This is no shock; Maedhros was agreeable even as the tiniest child. Feanor punished him more than I did, and often for faults I did not agree _were_ faults. Now, he is a model son: solicitous, attentive, if a little unambitious.

_He needs a good wife, and a good trade, and then I know he shall blossom more fully than ever._

We meet Feanor at the little office he keeps. It is part of Finwe’s larger sprawl of rooms, but unlike Finwe’s, which are grandly appointed for meetings and socials, Feanor’s office overflows with maps and sketches and treatises that friends and associates send him from afar. There is more ink on his face, but his stride is no less impressive, his _mien_ imperturbably confident. I know why I married him.

“We have had a happy day together,” I say, taking his arm as well as Maedhros’s. They both tower over me. “Do I rightly recall, my dear, that you intended to make it even happier?”

Feanor raises one eyebrow, as is his wont, and pretends not to know of what I speak. Maedhros sees the humor in his father’s face and smiles.

“What is it, Athair?”

“Oh, yes…_that_. A trifle only.” But Feanor has a twinkle in his eye, and he reaches into his coat pocket. “I was charged with the knowledge of a nineteenth year, and so charged, had no choice but to make something fitting the occasion.” We have paused in a little alcove, and I step back so that Feanor can place a small, paper-wrapped parcel in Maedhros’s hands.

Inside is a watch and chain. The links of the chain are so delicate that they look as frail as thread, though I know them to be uncommon strong. The watch itself is shaped as an eight-pointed star, exquisitely tooled in silver.

“The eight points are for the men of our family,” Feanor explains, rapt by his own creation even in gifting it. “And at the center, the cover for the face represents your mother. Thus I have engraved it with the north star.”

“Athair,” Maedhros breathes, cradling it in his palm. “It is the most beautiful piece of work I have ever seen.” Then he forgets himself, in that dear way particular to him, and flings his arms around his father’s neck.

Feanor laughs, a choked but delighted sound, and claps him on the back. “Well, well, my boy, I am very glad you like it. Your mother and brothers approved, of course, but I had my own doubts until this moment.”

Then we are all laughing, for we know that is not true.

How to choose a favorite memory, when I bid my sons farewell on the chilly forenoon of a grey Monday? Today is Maedhros’s birthday, in fact, but I must leave him.

Leave the boy who stood so tall and grave beside me at Mass, praying the holy Latin in his clear, proud voice. Who knelt beside me before the statute of our Mother shared. Who fell asleep with his head in my lap while Maglor sang to us both, while my hands trembled in the sacred task of stroking his ruddy hair back from his forehead.

Who blushed at the tea-shop because the world knew him to be beautiful.

“My love, how happy I am to see you well,” I tell him, and he hides his face against my shoulder. “You _are_ well, aren’t you?” I ask, suddenly stricken again. Suddenly unsure.

He lifts his face and stands back so that he can lift my chin in his hands and kiss my forehead. “Very well, _mamaí_,” he promises. “As you see.”

“It will be summer soon,” I assure him, and he nods.

“So soon.”

Maglor clings to me more than he did for the past few days, as if in parting he is reminded that I shall not be here any longer to praise him and his music.

“I shall write to you,” he says. I smile; Maglor forgets to write. And oh! I nearly forgot letters of my own.

“Your brothers wrote to you,” I say to Maedhros. I add, “For your birthday,” lest Maglor be offended.

He takes the papers I offer from my soft wallet and tucks them in his coat. Then Feanor comes down the steps, quite ready to be off, and I am bustled away before I can steal as many extra kisses as I would like.

“He seems well,” I say softly to Feanor, not meeting his eyes. I do not want him to see the tears in mine.

“Who?”

“Maedhros. Your _son_.”

“Ah, yes. Yes, of course he is well. He is a credit to us, Nerdanel. And he liked the watch. It _was_ handsome, I think.”

_As you see._

I have known him longest, since before I could see him. He kicked in my belly. His heart beat against mine. I press the back of my hand to my lips.

It will be summer soon.


End file.
